Yet she did not want to go. It was as if the voice of reason within her—the voice that urged her forth—were obscured by the incorporeal voices that spoke in her inner being. One was that of the forest, and it spoke in warning. "Come not on to my darkened trails," it might have said. "They are thine in the daylight hours, but at night they belong to the beasts. This is the time of talon and fang, and thy flesh is tender. I am old and wise, but also I am new, with the newness of the young world. And my spirit is Death." And the other voice was that of the ruddy camp fire behind her. "Stay, stay, stay," it crackled. "Here is thy hearth and thy heart. Stay, tender one."
As the shadows encroached and the firelight grew ever more dim, she found herself looking back—again and again—to the bright blaze. To-night it was home, and these forest trails were dark and silent. She entered the forest, but ever she saw its cheering gleam between the trees,—a bright haven of refuge where Danger could not come. She didn't entirely understand. She had ventured forth into the forests at night before, but never with such regret.
She could still see the form of Hugh seated beside the fire; and the sight moved her strangely. But she would not admit—even to herself—that part of the appeal of that bright circle of light was due to his presence. It had never seemed so dear, so much like home before,
